


Winfinity

by Edwardina



Series: Parks and Colferstreet [2]
Category: Glee RPF, Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Dream Team</i>, in which it's Galentine's Day, Chris Does Not Want, and another of Chord's secrets is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winfinity

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to finish this in time for Valentine's Day, but I had to fight an ultimate fighter, a bear, and him, and your mom, and I'm getting mad right now even thinking about it, I'm telling you. Like the previous, this is timeline-what-timeline.
> 
> Much thanks, as always, to my darling Kate. Thank you also to those who liked the first one when I thought no one would ever read it.

It's quiet in the office. Red foil cupids dangle on a chain between a series of hearts, rotating slowly in the air that pumps from the heaters. 

From where Chris is seated, he can see that Ron is carefully chinking a wing out of a wooden duck and Tom is admiring glossy advertisements in the latest issue of the ironically-named _The Eagleton Egalitarian_ , which Leslie subscribes to so she can spy on the neighbors; Jerry's just filling out some form with his grandpa glasses perched on his nose; Andy's actually asleep, cheek pressed to the February calendar laid out on his desk and mostly covered with rings of stains from various beverages rather than events, meetings, or tasks.

*

"It's Galentine's Day," explains Chris, glancing over his shoulder at his department stripped to the males. "That's when Leslie takes all her girlfriends out to brunch the day before Valentine's and gives them all a bunch of personalized gifts to celebrate their friendship and let them how much she loves them, and it's all very sweet and very crazy.

"I was invited last year and declined. I was invited again this year, and again declined. Not to be anti-social or because I hate brunch or have anything better to do or don't love Leslie to death, but because I don't want to perpetuate the stereotype that as a gay man, I'm just one of the girls, or that I'm like 'the girl' in my relationship. It's old, it's tired, I don't have lady parts, and... I still get the swag bag anyway."

This year's Galentine's Day Swag Bag includes:

"An iTunes gift card."

"A burlap sachet filled with... lavender."

"Uh, a startlingly accurate hand-cut silhouette." (Chris's reflects the relative hugeness and uptilt of his nose and it's framed in what seems to be an individually-decorated frame from the craft store.)

"One of those little gel... eye... mask thingies... you can put in the freezer or the microwave, one or the other, or both, I don't actually know, but I'll probably blow it up on accident either way. Oh, there's a whole relaxation kit thing. Fuzzy slippers – everyone needs those. I'm pretty sure this cucumber is something you cut up and put over your eyes and not a sex toy. Ooh, a brown sugar exfoliator... I'm pretty sure that's a hand-made label." (It says, _BROWN SUGAR, HOW DO YOU REMOVE DEAD SKIN CELLS SO GOOD?_ )

Not done yet.

"A blank journal, the cover of which has been Mod Podged with an eclectic assortment of pictures of parks, probably, sunsets, flowers, and the letters of my name cut out from magazines and newspapers... like either a teenage girl or serial killer would do. Ooh, note to self: screenplay about teenage girl who is a serial killer."

"And, interestingly, a voucher for a personalized license plate that Leslie scored from someone at the DMV." That idea has Donna written all over it.

And, Chris thinks distantly, maybe Chord. Chord likes car stuff. Maybe Chord would like the voucher. Even though he just drives a pickup, he'd probably love a license plate that said his name or some squashed thing you have to sound out and then maybe you still can't make sense of.

 _Overstr8_ , Chris muses.

*

Chris opens up his word processor and types: _I WAS A TEENAGE SERIAL KILLER_

The cursor blinks on the screen.

On Chris's desk, there's a stack of orange Post-Its handed down to the Parks department from Chris Traeger, who has oddly specific Post-It requirements that Chris Colfer can kind of appreciate, personally.

On the top Post-It, in Chris's handwriting:

> _V-Day Ideas:  
>  \- don't make it a big deal_

That's it.

*

"No, I do not celebrate Valentine's Day, better known to me as Singles Awareness Day, Feel Bad About Yourself Day, and Forced To Buy A Disingenuous Greeting Card Day," says Chris, caught in Ron's office with a stack of manila folders in his arms.

"But when you're dating someone, you can't just ignore it and watch _Titanic_ by yourself with a pint of Häagen-Dazs, especially if the person you're dating doesn't eat dairy or sugar. No, you have to bow to this societal pressure to validate your relationship and make it fit into some kind of category or mold with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and flowers, and it has to be on this exact date, and you have to pony up, or else – in society's opinion – you don't love that person. And God forbid you do sit alone eating ice cream. Then you're just a loser. It's peer pressure and judging others made into a national holiday.

"As a concept, I'd sooner celebrate Galentine's Day, even though – and this is a fact that no one seems to remember unless they're keying my car – I'm a guy."

***

By lunchtime, the ladies still haven't returned, so when Chord swings by the department, he peeks in, noticing it's abnormally quiet. Chris, having gained some momentum on his whole _Teen Dexter_ idea, is typing away, phone blatantly off the hook. Chord taps on the door frame, smiling at Chris when he looks up.

"Hey," he mouths.

"Hey," Chris returns, leaning back from his work and inviting Chord in with an answering smile.

He still feels a helpless thrill every time he sees Chord at the door. Even after months of laser tag dates, of Chord holding his hand and walking him to his car or to his door and making out with him, it's weird to look at him and realize they're actually dating. Really, for-real dating. Publicly. Chord is just so, so... straight-passing. Guy can't help it. Even when they're on a date at a restaurant the waitress brings them separate checks without even asking.

"Damn, it's quiet," says Chord. He's wearing his usual hopeless clothes that had helped keep Chris clueless for over a year and that compound the separate checks issue, but which nevertheless simply make him Chord. There's an old Scarecrow Boat t-shirt somewhere under that red and blue plaid button-up, and his jeans slouch in the ass and at the ankle around his boots. Chord used to wear sneakers to work most of the time, but he noticed that people were more likely to stop for a shine if he wore boots, as if Chord shines his own boots each and every morning, or something, so now Chord wears a pair of boots every day that, with the plaid shirts he throws on thoughtlessly, kind of make him look like an unironic hipster lumberjack.

He is insanely effing attractive.

And he has a Diet Coke in hand for Chris.

He does this every other day, at least.

"Thank you," Chris murmurs, meaning it as Chord transfers the icy-cold can to him, and Chord just grins at him, bright-eyed.

He lifts a big hand to wave at Ron through the window to his office and gets a stoic nod in return, then snags a chair from the table and picks it up to bring to Chris's desk, clearly mindful of Andy snoring nearby. He swings it backwards effortlessly, the muscles in his forearm flexing, and straddles it casually, leaning in towards Chris's desk.

"How's the shoe-shining racket?" Chris asks him knowingly.

Chord sighs. "Oh, you know. Kyle's family is still arguing over his mother's estate." (This has been an ongoing drama Chord has had to hear about since November. It's getting pretty ugly. Chris is addicted.) "Randy's finally gone through with his threat to get his own lawyer. He really wants that lamp!"

"Come on, Randy!" chides Chris. "It's a friggin' lamp. You can get them at Target. Or Amir's Lamporium down on Maize."

"I can't believe I'm Team Kyle," Chord laments, appreciation shining in his face.

"Like you're going to be Team Randy."

"I'm Team Crisp New Hamilton for listening to all that," Chord says. "Oh, Senator Brewlin came by first thing this morning. He only carries twenties."

"Nice!" Chris says, and they high-five. Quietly.

Chord is much more of a hustler than Chris ever would have given him credit for before.

The shoe shine gig clearly isn't Chord's dream, but he has a few of the Pawnee big-wigs as loyal customers now. They tip him generously when they come by, and Chris sees why. Chord can be kind of oblivious about some things, but charmingly so. He's personable, extremely polite, quiet and unassuming when he's supposed to be and entertaining when he's asked to be. His impressions are a crowd-pleaser across the board. He compliments people's kids and grandkids and dogs and motorcycles and whatever else they hold dear enough to have pictures of in their wallets. And again... he's really, ridiculously good-looking. And even though shining shoes isn't fulfilling for him, he throws himself into it pretty hardcore. When Chris gave him a Macy's gift card for Christmas, Chord used it on a new shoe-polishing kit, upgrading majorly from the old bag whose pockets still had wads of bubblegum in wrappers from the days when Andy worked at the stand.

Unexpected, but respected. Totally.

After all, even though it's murky territory for Chris that kind of makes him feel simultaneously guilty and spoiled, Chord won't let him pay for a single dinner or date or Diet Coke.

So Chord's gotta really work for all those sushi nights, all the movies he wants to take Chris to see and all the gas he buys to drive them out to Eagleton and Indianapolis just so they can try some weird restaurant or see the Scissor Sisters. To this day, Chris still has no idea how he had enough cash on hand to buy those Indy 500 tickets from Donna, but he has to hand it to Chord... the guy is good at dating.

Chord reaches out for Chris's hand, smiling, and Chris spots the orange Post-Its with his Valentine's Day notes next to Chord's elbow and quickly grabs them to tuck them away before wrapping his fingers around Chord's. Chord's hand is warm, slightly sweaty, smells like shoe polish. Chris's is pale and still cold from the Diet Coke. Holding hands across the desk like this, they look like maybe they've been arm wrestling and Chris has just won, hand on top of Chord's. Chord gives him a squeeze, and since nobody's there (except Jerry), he leans over and gives Chris's fingers a warm, big-lipped smooch. Chris's heart flutters.

They talk for about twenty minutes: who else's shoes Chord has shined so far this morning; what Chris has been writing on; whether or not they should go to Chris Traeger's Oscar party.

Despite the fact that there are reminders literally hanging all around – cupids, two bouquets of flowers on Donna's desk, and a big heart-shaped piñata that Andy has been dying to take a bat to since February first waiting to be strung up in the courtyard tomorrow – they somehow manage to avoid talk of Valentine's Day at all.

*

When the gals return in a gaggle, mylar heart balloons and swag bags in tow, Leslie announces, "We're back, everybody! Time to get off your lazy butts and go back to work! Jerry, you better have finished that form! It better not have a single mistake!"

"Leslie, geez," Jerry says, sweating. "I was the only one working this entire time."

"Don't suck up, Jerry. Sucking up is incredibly unattractive," Leslie says. "Dream Team! Dream Team, hi! Chris, you were missed at Galentine's Day. I really hope you'll come next year. It's so fun, you don't even know. Chord, I hope you're ready to help Andy put up that piñata."

"Wake up," April orders, throwing the sachet from her swag bag at Andy. It hits him right on the head like a little beanbag.

"Baby," Andy complains into the desk. "Why you throwin' hackysacks at me? You wanna give me a concussion?" Spotting Chord, he says, sitting up a little further as if proud, "I'm prone to concussions."

"It's full of flower petals," Chris tells him.

"No way," Andy says, smelling the sachet suspiciously. His face goes from doubtful to amazed in a split second. "Ooh. Man."

"Okay, breaking news, everybody," Leslie says loudly. "Swinging Singles Night has tragically been canceled. I guess some people thought it was some kind of sex party and not a really fun, retro dance with a swing-dancing theme, so the city has asked us to cancel it and stop the heavy onslaught of radio advertisements."

"Who didn't see that coming?"

No one but Leslie raises their hand.

"Okay, Tom. Just because you're gross, it doesn't mean that isn't the best idea for a dance, ever. We'll plan for it again next year, but we'll give it a better name. So, I guess all you singletons are going to have to make different plans for tomorrow. I'm sorry."

Chris sighs. He's the one who made sure the venue was booked, found the band, created the webpage, and advertised for it – against his better judgment – on Craigslist. It's nice to know all the work you do is for nothing. Chord darts him an apologetic look and Chris rolls his eyes and smiles, shaking his head.

"None of us are single," April says. "Except Ron. Are you heartbroken you can't mingle and swingle, Ron?"

"I'll pull through," says Ron, lurking in his doorway, arms crossed.

"I've got to go call Crazy Ira and the Douche and get them to pull that ad," sighs Leslie. "April, will you please get on the phone with Perd Hapley's secretary and ask them not to air the fluff piece tomorrow? Damn! I really liked that we got a fluff piece on the six o'clock news! Ann, moral support, please. This is so disappointing."

Ann flashes Chris and Chord a smile before pulling her buzzing phone out of her purse and perusing whatever text she just got as she follows Leslie into her office, April slouching along in her reluctant way.

"I better get back out to the stand," Chord says, rising and pushing his chair back at the table, smiling at Chris in an eye-crinkling in a way that's just for him.

"Chord! Let me come with you, buddy," Andy says, and tosses April's sachet at him excitedly. "A little hackysack?"

"Nice!" Chord says, and Chris watches Andy sling his arm around Chord's shoulders and enthusiastically head out with him to get some much-needed stimulation. The weird thing about that is that they could walk through a park like that and no one would assume they were anything but bros on their way to shoot some hoops.

He sighs, then, so heavily that across the room, Donna asks, "That boy givin' you trouble, Christopher?"

"No. He's great," Chris says dismissively, pulling his Diet Coke over and cracking it open.

"Well, no offense, son, but you look like someone neutered your second amendment rights," says Ron.

Chris pulls a brief considering face. He doesn't own a gun, but Chord did take him out to a shooting range on a date once. Although incredibly loud and not something he'd ever like to have around, they're fun as hell to shoot.

"It's nothing," he says, swiveling in his chair so he can get back to his script. "I'm just crotchety about tomorrow. I mean, the whole idea of a day where you're _forced_ to express feelings..."

"Valentine's Day as we know it is a corporate construct," Ron offers to the room at large. "It is what you make of it, as an individual. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I don't like it either way," says Chris.

"Nor do I," says Ron.

*

"I don't like the government telling me to do anything," Ron says, seated at his desk with his wooden duck-in-progress. "I will express myself in my own way whenever I damn well please. That is why I am hand-carving this duck decoy. I'm going to give it... to no one. It is mine. A happy Valentine's Day, indeed."

*

"V-Day is the best!" says Tom, taking a seat in the chair Chord abandoned, propping his feet up onto the table and spreading _The Eagleton Egalitarian_ in his lap. "Two-for-one shots at the Snakehole Lounge, ladies get free lap dances at The Glitter Factory, Ferrero Rocher on sale at Food Panther. It's like a sad lonely woman buffet out there – take all you want, but eat all you take, am I right, Ron?"

"In no way is that right," Chris interjects, grimacing. Tom and Ann are kind of on-again, off-again, so someone has to slap Tom's hand when Ann is busy.

"WHOAAA!" Tom barks, which seems a hugely inappropriate response to a smarmy joke falling on deaf ears. He's staring at the magazine up-close. "Whaaat! Chris! Why didn't you tell me?"

Chris answers sardonically, "I wanted to hurt you. It's a personal vendetta."

"Well, you succeeded! Are you kidding me right now? Why didn't you tell me Chord was a moooo-del?" Tom asks in his elongated whine, staring at the magazine with obvious enchantment.

"Uh, 'cause he isn't. He shines shoes," Chris says, fixing a typo on his script.

"But he's in this ad!" 

Tom turns the magazine towards Chris.

Wild zoom on the unnecessarily thick and shiny pages of _Egalitarian_ : there's a fashion-y black and white photo spread over an entire page with a flap on one side, clearly a fragrance ad, featuring a blond guy scowling intently and grabbing at his own partially-unbuttoned shirt as if he's about to rip it off like a superhero.

There's a huge word stamped over the guy's pretty face.

_MANWHORE_

*

Out at the shoeshine stand, Andy's old stomping grounds, Andy and Chord have already busted the sachet from the Galentine's Swag Bag all over the floor, and Chord's sweeping up the scattering of dried purple flowers while Andy lounges in one of the seats on the stand, Chord's ukulele in his hands making idle, breezy music. The sachet did last an admirably long time for something that wasn't supposed to be kicked around.

"Aw, man. Bummer! Your boots sure are sharp, buddy," Andy had said innocently. "Tell you what, let me get you a broom so you can sweep that up. Or you could just leave it! Smells nice, right? No, okay, I'll get you the broom."

Now he's helping by asking, "Shoe shine? Shine your shoes, sir?" at the few passers-by still coming in from lunch. "No? Your loss."

The booth has changed a little bit from the days when Andy was running the whole thing. There's still Mouse Rat CDs on sale next to the Twix and Nutriyum bars, but there's new pictures on the wall. They're kind of boring, just of Chord's family – though his sisters are hot, so there is that. Chord's boyfriend hand-painted a sign for the counter in old-timey-looking letters, the words _SHOE SHINE $5_ dancing on top of a musical scale. Next to Andy's sneaker, Chord's fancy-shmancy shoe-shine kit.

Andy plays the chords to "The Pit" and sings, "Oh, the shoes. I used to shine the shoes. Now Chord shines the shoes. We all got shiiiny shoooes."

Chord laughs and joins in, allowing Andy to splinter off into the high-pitched harmony that is his most-beloved thing about Blanket Power, previously Angelic Layer Cake, previously Benadryl Lumberjacks, previously Nippleslip, previously Roy G. and The Biv, previously Cellofame, previously The Jolly Ranchers, previously Virginia Wolf, previously Think Tank, previously Doublemint Twinkie. With the ukulele and Andy's unique brand of falsetto stretching over Chord's capable Andy impression, it sounds like a Mouse Rat-does-lullabies CD. It's not bad, especially with the scent of lavender in the air.

"Okay, seriously, we have to write a song one of these days," Andy finally says. "You're holding out on me, man. I love covering classic Wilson Phillips and Spice Girls with you, but I've seen your chops on public display, and I think it's time. You got any jams up your sleeve?"

"I dunno," Chord says.

"Still working on your solo project. I got it," says Andy. "Hey, so, tomorrow night April and I are gonna watch _Spider-man III_ then go swing around on the tire swings over at Circle Park. You wanna come?"

"Nah, I got a thing to do."

"Aw, come on! Bring Chris," Andy suggests. "He loves tire swings."

"He does love tire swings," Chord verifies, considering, as he bends and urges some renegade dried lavender hiding up close to the counter into the dust pan. "But, nah, actually, I do need to do some stuff. Hey, is that what you're doing for Valentine's?"

"I don't really know. Why?"

"Well... I've never had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day before. Or a boyfriend. Obviously."

"Oh. Bummer."

"Like, in high school, I dunno, I guess Valentine's Day was never a big deal because I never seemed to be dating anybody when the day rolled around. All I ever did was buy my mom a card and get my sisters those little boxes of hearts that say stuff on them."

"Sweet," remarks Andy, flashing a smile at the camera, because he never bought his mom a card – is that a thing, or is that a gay-Chord thing? Because sometimes he can't tell.

"So... like, I mean, I wanna do something, but – I don't know, can I overdo it? Do I go for flowers, or is that too played out? Or is it too girly? 'Cause Chris doesn't even want to go to Galentine's Day. He doesn't like to be treated like he's a girl."

"I wish I could go to Galentine's! April always gets the coolest stuff, and I love brunch so much. Booze at eleven A.M. and it's a brunch thing, not a you-have-a-problem thing."

Chord abandons the broom in a lean against the counter. "What would you want for Valentine's Day? Like, as a guy, what would your ideal day be?"

"Ideal Valentine's: macaroni and cheese with those little bacon bits in them served by candlelight, _Fallout 3_ on my Xbox 360, winner take all song-writing contest which I win, obviously, and _messed up sex_. On a waterbed. Then leftover mac and cheese. Then more sex. Then a nap, probably, spooning with my wife. Boom!"

Chord nods slowly, slightly bewildered at the lengthy specificity of it all.

"Weren't you guys gonna go to the sex dance?" Andy asks.

"I dunno. Maybe. I think he was gonna check coats, but then he said he didn't want to go, so I'm really not sure. I thought maybe I'd go just in case he was there. And now it's canceled, so the evening's just totally open."

"You know, Leslie once told me, 'You go big or you go home.' Or, no! Don't go big, just go normal," Andy tells him, doing an energetic double-time strum on the uke. "'Cause you take Chris on crazy dates all the time. So just take him out and do your thing like any other date, but be sure to, like, I dunno, hold his hand and look in his eyes and tell him you love him. Make sure he knows. Maybe call him a cute nickname – might I suggest... Mister Christoffelees."

Andy gives the camera a little nod and grin. Genius and high-class.

Chord leans next to the broom doubtfully.

"I dunno. We haven't really, like... said anything like that."

Andy's jaw drops. "Dude! You've been dating for, like... I have no idea how long it's been, actually. But I do know it's been some amount of... possibly months?"

"Yeah. Ten months."

"Ten ****ing months and you haven't said 'I love you'? Man," Andy laments. "What's _wrong_?"

*

_MANWHORE_

_THE NEW FRAGRANCE FOR MEN  
DENNIS FEINSTEIN_

Tom drops his feet from the table and leans towards Chris, suddenly serious. "Chris, on the real, Dennis Feinstein is a murderer of dreams. As such, I no longer purchase his designer fragrances. But do you think Chord can hook me up with a little Manwhore? I'm talking about a free sample of the cologne and not a midget escort."

"Stop, stop, stop," Chris says sternly. "A, that's disgusting, and B, Chord is not in a freakin' Dennis Feinstein ad! You can't even see that guy's face because the name of the product is covering most of it. It could be anybody. It's probably just some guy with highlights."

"No offense, C-Colf, but – Chord's mouth is both uniquely sculpted and totally humongous, which is pretty much perfect for a product called Manwhore."

"You are enjoying saying that word a lot," Ron notes.

"It's all I aspire to be in life!" Tom replies. "And Chris, your boy is embodying it! That is _him_!"

Donna's out of her seat at this point, bending over Tom's shoulder. She takes one second to look at it, then says, "Yep. That's Chordy. Damn! He looks cute!"

Jerry cranes in his seat, and even Ron trudges forward, arms crossed, unable to ignore the impulse of interest.

"No, you're all wrong," Chris mutters, pushing himself up with a growing sensation that the universe is sniggering behind its gigantic Monty Python hand at him. Again. He whips the magazine out of Tom's hands before anyone else can see it, the scent of Manwhore assaulting his nostrils through the flap on the page. It's... beyond musky.

And now that he's not several feet away, he can see past the giant ridiculous letters someone decided would be best right on Chord's face.

Tom's right. It _is_ him. It is undeniably Chord Overstreet in the picture. Even if Chris hadn't spent long periods of time staring at Chord's features and wasn't totally in love with his entire stupid attractive face, he would definitely still recognize him by the mouth. Again, Tom's right. It's a distinctive feature. In fact, if it had been nothing but a picture of Chord's mouth, Chris wouldn't be surprised if it was recognizable as him solely by his lips. But this ad has much more than mouth to offer. Chord's eyes practically burn up out of the page, staring intensely out over the font. It's an expression Chris has never even seen on Chord before, which makes the whole picture even more jarring than it is already. He looks like he's about to tear off his clothes and have sex with whoever's holding the magazine.

Chris just stares.

"Boy, you have bagged a man of many talents," Donna says, leering.

"Okay, I don't understand what's going on. Why did he not tell me he was going to be in a magazine?" Chris wonders, allowing Ron to take the magazine from him. His arms are feeling pretty floppy anyway. "Why does this keep happening? Why am I always the last to know?"

"Do you guys even talk, or do you just maaake out?" Tom teases.

Ron sniffs at Chord's face.

"Top notes of tobacco," he says, eyes squinting keenly. "Leather. Sandalwood. Pine-Sol. Sweat. Genital musk... beaver. Synthetic, of course. These days they could never use genital sacs from an actual beaver."

"Are you kidding me?" says Tom. "If I drop a box of toothpicks right now, are you gonna turn into Rain Man?"

"I have an uncommonly keen sense of smell," Ron replies.

"Where were you when I was trying to break into the perfumery biz?" Tom demands, hurt.

Ron hands the magazine back to Chris.

"Right where I always am. In my office, not caring."

*

"Nothing's wrong," Chord murmurs, sliding both his hands into his back pockets and nodding awkwardly at Joe from Sewage as he passes by, a weirdly hot intern strutting along behind him with a plunger on her shoulder. "We just haven't talked about that. There's just been other stuff..."

"Damn. You guys really don't communicate."

"Yeah, we do. We send each other _Garfield Minus Garfield_ comics all the time."

"Man, by the time April and I were together for ten months, we'd been married for, like, ever!"

"Well, I can't get married here," Chord says patiently.

"But you can say 'I love you.' I'm pretty sure that's not illegal. Although, I dunno. Pawnee's got weird laws. It's still illegal for me to tell Champion I love him. But you know what? I do it all the time anyway."

"You and April – and Champion – have it so easy," Chord mutters.

He knows it's true, because whenever he hangs out over at April and Andy's to jam or watch weird movies or listen to Mouse Rat demos or play a game of three-way catch, he sees how effortless it is between them. April does stuff like lay on the couch and put her feet on Andy's shoulder, and he says, _Ew, babe, your feet smell!_ So she rubs one on his face, and he laughs and says, _You're so gross. I love you._ And April says, _Prove it. Make out with my toes._ It's weird, but... it's still normal, just because Andy's a guy and April's a girl.

They have it easy because they don't ever question anything. They have nothing to figure out. They don't overthink, or even think at all most of the time, and don't fear each other or themselves or anyone else.

***

Chord didn't get over the relative shock of kissing a guy for weeks.

He wasn't really shy or ashamed or anything like that. He _wanted_ to kiss Chris, and it was the fact that he really honestly did that was strange and staggering.

It had never been like that with girls. He'd just kissed them, and it was fine; it was nothing; it was a blank moment. Sometimes Chord had wondered what they were thinking and if it was a good kiss or a bad kiss, because he couldn't tell, personally. He just closed his eyes and moved his mouth and felt somewhat distracted. He just wasn't that big on kissing.

With Chris, it was totally different from the first kiss. The Target toy aisle, of all places, was probably the worst place to get so turned on. It was overwhelming, and it kept being overwhelming every time, going a hundred and eighty miles an hour after a lifetime of being in a traffic jam.

There were times during the summer, when everything was still new, that Chord was so taken aback that he didn't know what to say after they kissed – didn't know what to do with the flood of panicked energy that his brain desperately tried to dam up by just going offline totally, or something. He can remember Chris patting shoulders and straightening his collar and saying, _Okay? Chord? Do you want to stop?_ He can remember shaking his head and Chris just stroking his cheeks with gentle thumbs. He always waited, patient and sweet, hands delicate in the way they touched him, but big, capable, boyish.

The disconnect in Chord's dating life hadn't ever seemed so profound or obvious as it seems now, like in comparison. He did like girls, at least a little. He must have. He'd dated them and taken one to prom and stuff; he'd wanted to find a girlfriend. He thought girls were nice! You know. And he's actually always liked the idea of getting married and having kids and coming to family barbeques with a toddler in arm and another rugrat clinging around his leg. He likes the idea of being a dad, hauling tykes around. His sister's got kids and they're the cutest. Family's important, and he wants one. He really wants one.

To be brutally honest, Chord could've probably dated a girl and married her and started a family with her and stuff by now, and been pretty much okay with any other feelings or whatever remaining undisturbed.

April asking him if he was gay was just – it seemed completely random. Like, out of nowhere. Like, why would she ask him that? Why would anyone think that? Was there something about the way Chord looked or acted that made April think he was gay? He really didn't know, and it was off-putting. But the off-putting thing wasn't that she'd ask him something like that – it was that she'd made him look at himself in the mirror differently and ask himself that question, and only a jumble of confusion stared back.

He really never considered why Chris's desk was his favorite to sit on or why he liked to look over his shoulder and get a glimpse of what Chris was working on that day. It just was; he just did.

He'd never thought it was anything besides fun to bring fruit snacks he didn't even eat just so he could trade them for something Chris had at lunchtime. It was fun to know he could bribe Chris with fruit snacks, or cheer him up. It was fun to give him something he liked. That Chord drove out to the Target in Eagleton just to buy boxes of fruit snacks and nothing else didn't ping that much. Knowing Chris liked Diet Coke and getting him one when he passed by the soda machine on the third floor was just... a nice thing to do.

The five dollar bill Chris had paid him for the one shoe-shine Chord had ever given him stayed tucked in his kit, never put in the cash box, never spent. It was just not like other fives. He wasn't going to just trade it for something. Nothing compared to the value of the actual paper, bent from Chris's wallet. Simple fact.

He'd never not wanted to wear the jingle hat Chris had made for him. He'd never not wanted to sit by him when they went to the movies with April, Donna, and Ann. There was never a field trip he turned down. There was never a day where he wasn't looking forward to seeing Chris.

Chris was funny. Chris was smart and unflappable and tough to impress – not scary-tough or snobby-tough, but fun-tough. Chris made mundane stuff into the funnest stuff. There was something alluring about him that drew Chord in, and he didn't know what it was, exactly. It just felt magnetic, like there was supposed to be something there at Chris's side, and Chord didn't want anyone or anything else to fill that space. It was his space.

But... he'd never _liked_ a guy before, so...

Where was the line between being friends and being more than friends?

April had made him think about it pretty hard.

It just took a little while for Chord to get over the intensity of waking up like that. At the same time, it's still awkward and kind of painful to realize his life isn't anything like he ever pictured it might be when he was growing up, even if he actually likes his life and adores the guy he's... dating.

He's had to learn to habitually brush away the jagged debris of thinking he was straight for twenty-two years of his life. The mirror within him that reflected how he expected to see himself broke the moment he realized he really did have an actual weird-feeling thing for Chris, and since then, it's only become more and more fragmented. Sometimes, pushing all that aside, it's a clean sweep. Sometimes he gets himself gouged by pieces of a time when he was going to play professional baseball and marry some pretty girl someday and give his parents more grandkids. Every time his mom calls to check on him, every time he sees his nephews. Every time he logs on to Facebook and sees people he went to high school with talking about their girlfriends or posting pictures of their weddings or kids.

It isn't a feeling of self-doubt about who he is... that's kinda black-and-white. It's just like there are expectations everywhere, about everything. And Chord has never really fit into any of them.

*

Andy's relaxed, though.

"Everyone knows you love him. You're all kinds of mushy. You bring him Diet Cokes, you spend every weekend with him now instead of playing Ultimate Frisbee, you take him to fancy restaurants. And you freaking came out of the closet in front of everybody for the guy. Drop the L-bomb, dude."

Chord doesn't say anything.

*

"Man, Chord is screwed. Saying you love your lady on Valentine's Day is pretty much mandatory," Andy tells the camera, sagely stroking his scruff. "I hope they don't break up on Valentine's Day. That would not be very romantic."

***

Twenty minutes later, Chris is sitting in Leslie's office with Ann and April, both of whom are glued to the Dennis Feinstein ad.

"I'm sorry, but what else don't I know about Chord? First he turns out to be gay, then he turns out to be a model? What else is he, a soap star? A Scientologist?"

Leslie gets in on it. "A diplomat? An awesome astronaut just killing time in the best city in America before his triumphant return to space?"

"Porn star," April votes.

"... Subway sandwich artist?" Ann lamely offers after a pause in which Leslie stares at her with an expectant grin.

Leslie puts her typical positive spin on that, nodding. "Cool, you could get free subs!"

"God, I'm dating a male model," Chris says, bending till his head's between his knees. "What do you do on Valentine's Day for a gorgeous model who watches his diet and does push-ups every morning so his body can be offensively sick, and who won't let you pay for anything, and writes you stupid catchy love songs on his guitar, and takes you on weekend tours of Indiana's wooden roller coasters, and leaves you voicemail impressions of Perd Hapley interviewing Matthew McConaughey about sleeping with Councilman Dexhart, giving you a reason to look forward to checking it at all? And his birthday's in a few days, too! God, I am so screwed!"

"Okay, calm down," Leslie says steadily. "Chord's a happy guy – he's not expecting anything from you. He just wants to be around you. I'm sure your presence would be gift enough. But if you really want to Valentine it up, well. You are in the presence of someone who literally thinks of perfect presents and fun activities in their sleep all the time. Ask Ben, he'll tell you."

"Or look at these swell Galentine's Day Swag Bags," April says dryly.

"I've got lists. I don't even wake up, I sleep-gift," Leslie continues. "Do you know how many apt and poignant gifts I've thought of for President Obama in my dreams?"

"Don't ask," Ann advises. "It's a lot."

"Chord doesn't eat junky stuff, right? Fruit basket," Leslie fires off. Then: "No! Just a second, I'm just warming up, but don't knock Edible Arrangements, they're awesome – oh my God! Duh! Mix CD. Track one, the first song you danced together to. It was 'Boots and Boys' by Ke$ha, in case you don't remember. Track two, something that reminds you of your first date! First kiss! His eyes! Your shared philosophies on life! Put 'Walking On Sunshine' on there and it's perfect. Or, wait, do you knit? No, I would know if you did. You're a writer. Write him a love poem, the world's most romantic sonnet. You have a voice like a beautiful little sixteenth-century castrato, so you could set it to music and give him a song like he gave you. Or! Book him studio time so he can record his music. Andy can get you a deal at Doubletime Studio. Too flashy, you say? It should be something more personal and sexy? Don't underestimate the dirty acrostic... it gets results."

"Ew!" April interjects, but it's in an admiring tone.

"I have to disagree with the whole idea of Valentine's Day being about putting your relationship on parade or grand gestures," Ann says. "With respect to Leslie, who is insanely gifted at gifting –"

Leslie smiles graciously.

"– I think you can have a nice low-key Valentine's Day just going to your favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant or cooking up something you both really like at home, watching a great movie, and cuddling up on the couch."

"Ew," April repeats, this time aghast. "You said the c-word."

"Yeah. I did," says Ann frankly. "And I mean it. What Leslie said about Chord just wanting to be around you is totally right. He's so smitten, Tom and I actually play a drinking game that revolves around it."

"Hyperbole?" Chris asks, peering up at her.

"No, although we've been trying to give it an official name, and that's actually a really good contender." Ann holds up her phone. "It goes like this: Tom sends me a text every time Chord parks next to you in the lot, every time he comes to visit you, every time he brings you a Diet Coke, every time he kisses your hand – which is nauseatingly sweet, by the way. We tally up texts at the end of the week and we've devised a points system for shots. We text if we see you guys at a park outside of office hours or department-sponsored activities – it's worth an extra shot if it's at Wamapokestone – or if we see Chord do that thing where you walk away and he stares at your back till you're gone, or if he volunteers to do something just because you're doing it too..."

"Wow, you guys are kind of stalking us," Chris manages, flushing.

"Yeah. Our best dates are after we follow you on dates. At this point, I'm pretty sure Tom has some weird man-crush on Chord that can't come out in full because he doesn't wear suits."

"HYPERBOLE!" Tom yells through the glass.

"Yes, I'm exaggerating. He's an alcoholic."

"Aaaannnnnnnn! Boo Bear!"

"I can't stop imagining you guys cuddling and I want to poke my own eyes out," April bitches at Ann.

"Sometimes he asks me to wear a bandana," Ann replies.

"Sick!" April's tone circles all the way back to appreciative.

"Trust me, Chris," Ann says. "I've been where you are now. I've had the cliché Valentine's Day with the heart-shaped rose bouquets and the giant stuffed bears. Overrated, but you know, it's the thought that counts. And I've had the Valentine's Day panic attacks when I've been with guys who freak me out a little because they're so perfect and so cool that I start feeling like a total goober."

"You're talking about me without me," Tom pouts, muffled.

"It's not just that, although you're right, I am a little freaked out that Chord is apparently a model," says Chris, still bent at the waist. "Believe me, I got the memo on day one. He's good-looking. And straight-passing enough that men will want to buy that awful cologne just so they can attempt to be as attractive as him. And he'll probably just get more and more attractive with age if he continues on this trajectory. Honestly, I'm just disappointed he didn't tell me. It seems kind of major."

"Maybe he's totally embarrassed. Mortified that he's selling essence of butt-sweat with his body," says April. It's really kind of a nice thing for her to suggest.

"But I didn't think Chord would keep something from me. I tell him everything! He knows all my ridiculous secrets."

*

"Like the time someone put manure in my locker. And the time I was shoved into my locker. Separate events, thankfully. And then there was the time I was home-schooled for two years because kids picked on me so much."

"Um, I used to be chubby."

"I loved the _Speed Racer_ movie. Saw it three times in theaters. Have it on DVD."

"I always put Marcia Langman on hold. And I submit her phone number to all kinds of weird calling lists. That bitch can suck it."

"If Oprah was a religion, I'd probably be a religious man."

"My freshman year of college, I had kind of a weird secret relationship with a TA. He was six years older than me and straight. Because, as you know, I like a challenge. But he broke it off with me by leaving to go on his honeymoon with his pregnant wife."

"And I can actually knit, but I'm a former yarn addict. I started buying way too much Malabrigo, became a junkie, and had to quit the knit cold turkey."

*

"It really sounds to me like you should reserve judgment on this situation and ask him face-to-face what's up. It could be that he's been waiting till the ad comes out so he could surprise you with his borderline-offensive handsomeness," Leslie says, sounding reasonable as ever. "A picture's worth a thousand words."

"In this case, all of them disgusting," Ann remarks. "Look at this. Under 'Manwhore' it says, 'Smell.' Is that like a tag line or instructions?"

"A dire, dire warning," says April.

"He could have a twin," Leslie adds, not derailed by the bizarreness of the ad.

"Right now I feel like he could, and I wouldn't even know," Chris murmurs.

"All right, Chris," says Leslie decisively, "if I've learned anything about you in the fruitful two years you've worked here, it's that you're almost as much of an achiever as me. More so, in the areas of fiction and costumery, but less so in flag collecting. You didn't just submit one idea for the new rec center mural, you submitted twenty-two. Of course, my idea won because it was classic Brendanawicz, but I put all yours in my 'Chris's Genius' folder because that's what they are, especially the one with the dogs playing badminton. Genius! You are also articulate, sweet and thoughtful, a Photoshop wizard, and great with a glue gun. But for some reason, when it comes to Chord... you hold yourself back."

The utter truth of it resonates like the blood slowly pulsing in Chris's face as he stares at his shoelaces. He knows he does. It's always been one of Chris's priorities not to push Chord or force anything. Awesome dates and over-the-top gestures of affection aside, Chord's still learning about himself and how to be out.

"Therefore," Leslie continues, "I am delegating you the task of getting to the bottom of this before the end of the day. Don't expect the worst. Expect the best!"

Chris sits up slowly, aware of Ann smiling at Leslie in a misty way and April playing with a strand of her dark hair, eyes showing a laggard sort of investment.

"See, you missed Galentine's, so I didn't get to tell you how awesome you are and meddle in your love life at brunch," Leslie adds. "Gettin' it done!"

*

"Leslie really is the best," Ann says. "She's always building up her girlfriends instead of tearing them down like some women. She does kind of hoard things she considers genius, though. Like pithy quotations and movie reviews she thinks are apt and polymer beads she finds at garage sales. She has an 'Ann's Genius' folder, too. In it there's just a picture of my face."

She beams immodestly, but it kind of fades after a moment of consideration.

*

Chord didn't get back to the shoe shine stand, or so it seems. All Chris sees as he approaches it, nervous hands stuck in his pockets, is Andy behind the counter in an apron streaked with shoe polish, helping himself to a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

"Hey, Andy," Chris says. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, hey, Chris! Just watchin' the stand."

"Where's Chord?" 

"I don't know. Tom came down a couple minutes ago and they went off together somewhere. They'll probably be right back."

"Oh," says Chris, a slightly foreboding feeling coming over him. "Listen, normally I wouldn't ask this kind of thing, but you're pretty much Chord's best friend. Has he ever said anything to you? About there being something he's not telling me, or just keeping to himself?"

Extreme close-up on Andy's eyes widening.

"No, sir, I do not know a thing about these or any kind of... shenanigans," he responds, committing even though that doesn't seem to be the word for the whole situation. "This isn't awkward or anything."

Chris pins him with a hollow yet expectant semi-glare, Ron Swanson-style.

"Shoe shine?" offers Andy.

Chris pulls his phone from his back pocket and dials Ann.

*

"Oh my freaking God, I can't believe I'm standing here talking to the face of Manwhore. This is truly beyond comprehension. Here's what I do know: we have got to go shopping together. Come on, what do you say. It'll be dope to have those salesladies falling all over us once they see your face. Hit 'em with a little Cold Coffee, and bam! We're VIP, dancing in a rain of free pocket squares. First thing, though, let's get you a real shirt."

Chord has worked downtown for two years and never gotten this kind of crazy focused attention from Tom, not even the night he came out on stage at The Bulge and not even when he does his patented Perd Hapley. It's actually pretty difficult to follow.

"Seriously, Chord, in Pawnee, 'on a scale of one to ten, you're a certified twen-tyyy,'" Tom says, singing the end of it in a nasally tone that makes Chord squint. "You're hot! I can say it. I'm not afraid. You are super hot. Weirdly hot. You defy Pawneean reality. But even in Eagleton, you're a model. Even in _Eagleton_ , where everybody's tall and symmetrical!"

"Oh. Well, Eagleton's where the work is," Chord says, racking his brain to try and remember when he told Tom about his modeling career. Obviously it was sometime when he was really drunk.

"So tell me, do you get recognized, like, all the time?"

"Not in Pawnee," says Chord.

 _Cha-chang!_ says Tom's grin.

"Seriously? I'm the first?"

"Uh, yeah. You're the first."

"I cannot believe this," Tom says. "Your face sells the most popular men's fragrance in the tri-county area. You should be rocking Burberry plaid, but instead you go around in Paul Bunyan plaid! Why do you dress like a big blue ox should be following you around?"

Chord glances briefly down at his jeans, t-shirt, and boots. They're not even his cowboy boots.

"I guess for the same reason you wear Italian loafers and D&G shades and have a Ralph Lauren polo in every shade they offer," he opts to say. "I just wear what I like."

"Holy s***. Straight up, you're blowing my mind. You and Ron are messing me up, C-Street. Destroying my world views. Smashing my glass ceiling!"

Chord just looks at the camera, mouth hanging open, head shaking once in total confusion.

*

"I'm not really fashion-conscious," says Chord, pulled aside for an interview. "But Tom loves labels. It's not hard to read a label."

*

Chord's face stings a bit when he finally gets back into the welcoming heat of the front lobby, not just because he's cold and it's warm, but because Chris is sitting in one of the chairs at the shoe-shine stand, and seeing him there makes a flush rise into his cheeks. It's the middle of the work day – maybe there's a field trip.

"Are we gonna hook up in the broom closet?" Tom wants to know. He's being pushed back towards the Parks department by Ann, who miraculously showed up and grabbed him by the ear.

"For the millionth time, no," says Ann.

"Now, why don't I believe you? Look at you, being all insistent."

"Ha ha!" Andy laughs, for no reason. "Ann's annoyed. Classic."

"Hey," Chord blusters, grinning.

"See? What'd I tell you. He's back," Andy says merrily. "It only took, like, an hour."

"Were you waiting on me?" Chord asks. "Sorry. Tom just shanghaied me and I think I wound up agreeing to go shopping or something with him, and I don't know how it even happened. And I think he called me a whore."

"Hey, Andy, can you go see if Leslie needs any help?" Chris asks pointedly.

Andy holds up a finger. "I got it. You two... want to be alone. To discuss. Things."

"Good guess," Chris says.

"Oh – wait. Is that not it? What, you wanna make out, then? A little _mano a mano_? Man-on-man," he clarifies for the audience. "'Cause I am cool with that. You can tongue-kiss in front of me all you want. Just keep it rated a light R."

"God, Andy, beat it already," Chris says, blushing too.

Andy rolls over the counter unnecessarily, knocking the propped-up broom over, and mouths, _Drop the bomb!_ behind his hand as he backs away.

"It takes so much energy to keep up with Andy," Chris comments, watching him walk backwards and mime a bomb dropping whilst whistling and providing the explosion. Chord re-props the broom, then slides up into the seat next to Chris's, a nervous feeling hanging out casually in his chest and punching his heart against his ribs for fun. But before he can even begin to wrestle with whether or not it's the right time or place to tell his boyfriend he loves him, Chris hands him a magazine. "So, this is why Tom was calling you a whore. I assume."

Chord recognizes the picture vaguely, even though it's been changed to black and white and has been Photoshopped and turned into an ad. For something called Manwhore. That does explain a lot.

"That's you, isn't it?" Chris asks.

"Yeah," Chord confirms, though it looks like some stranger in the picture to him, some tool with bleached hair and empty eyes. "It's from a couple years ago."

"The ad?" Chris asks, sounding surprised.

"Oh, no, just the picture. Look at my hair, it's super blond. The ad is new to me, though. They probably just bought the shot off the photographer. I didn't pose for something that smells like... a pile of dirty jock straps."

"You're a model," Chris says. He's sitting there austerely, knee crossed one over the other, thumbs tapping each other. Chord's not exactly the best at picking up other people's signals, but he knows Chris's well enough by now to recognize that he's uncomfortable.

"I used to do some modeling, yeah," Chord says, face crinkling at the memories. "Mostly local stuff for Eagleton, like catalogs and brochures."

"You're an ex-model."

"Well, I don't do as much as I did in high school –"

"You were a teen model!"

"Please don't make fun of me," Chord moans.

"I'm not making fun of you," Chris says quickly, grasping at Chord's elbow. "Why would I make fun of you for being paid to be extremely attractive?"

"Because it says 'Manwhore' on my face! I'm caked in makeup. My mouth looks stupid and weird and really chapped. I look like I think my shirt's too tight, or like I'm about to dart into a phone booth and come out in a cape."

"You look hot," Chris argues.

"No, I look like an epic douche."

Chris just looks at him for a moment, eyes bluer and deeper than the winter sky.

"You don't. And you don't have to hide anything from me, you know," he says softly, "about your life. I'm not ever going to make fun of you. Even though this ad is painfully tasteless, it's not you, it's Dennis Feinstein. You're flawless."

Chord grins at the tiled floor.

"I mean it," Chris presses. "I just wish you would've told me you're an... ex-model?"

"I still do a little bit here and there," Chord admits.

"But you were never going to tell me?" Chris asks. His voice isn't angry or impatient or demanding – Chris is never anything but patient. It's just light. Too light.

"Honestly, I don't think about it much, so it didn't occur to me," Chord says. "It's just something I've been doing on the side since I was little."

"You were a child model."

"Well... I won this beauty pageant when I was three. That's how I got signed."

"Okay. Beautiful from birth."

"That's why I leave the room when you're watching _Toddlers and Tiaras_ , though! I don't really talk about it with anyone. It's not that it's a secret," he adds quickly, realizing that's totally what it sounds like. "I'm just used to..."

"Completely compartmentalizing," Chris tells him gently. "Straight, gay. Shoe-shining in Pawnee, modeling in Eagleton."

"It's just that my brother and sister thought it was the most hilarious thing ever, especially when I got to be, like, going through puberty, and I just looked like a huge dork and I did stuff like teen abstinence booklets –"

Chris winces.

"It was called _Teen Abstinence: All The Cool Kids Aren't Doing It_."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah. I gave them ample opportunity to tell me I'd be a virgin forever."

"Quite the one-eighty you pulled, from Teen Abstinence to Manwhore."

"I guess so. I mean, I liked doing it, earning money and getting to skip school to goof around in a photo shoot. So I kept going with it, but my mom stopped announcing it at the breakfast table if I had a go-see or booked a job so they'd lay off. I racked up a pretty big portfolio."

"So Pawnee's Next Top Model right now," Chris says, smiling.

"You don't get it. It took them years to stop ragging on me," Chord insists. "The 'face' on Mars? Me. I quit eating cereal 'cause they'd see me and say, 'Part of a complete breakfast.' The first time I went to a dance with a girl, they said, 'Don't you recognize him? He's the kid from the Sweetums ad.' I was wearing a propeller cap in that ad."

"Aw. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Chord says with a laugh. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does," Chris says, keenly but kindly. "You absolutely worship your siblings. The wall behind us says it all. I've heard you talk about Nash's band so many times I feel like I could write a groupie tell-all, and I've never even seen them. Your Twitter picture was of your nephew for months, which made it seem like I was in constant contact with a very flirty four-year-old."

"He is pretty flirty," Chord jokes.

There's a pause – Chord uses it to gaze at Chris. His crossed legs look looser somehow, and his fingers are lightly grazing down Chord's forearm, touch casual but comforting anyway.

"So many things make sense now," Chris comments.

"Like what?"

"Like you being so strict with your diet and the way you keep yourself so ripped you look like you're preparing for the role of Captain America. The incongruous highlights. The way you've always had money to take me out, even though the shoe-shine stand can't possibly pay that well. The thing I don't get is – why do you work here?" Chris asks, looking seriously concerned about Chord's sanity. "If you can actually earn money with your face, why on earth do you shine shoes? Why don't you move to Eagleton with all the other beautiful people, or go out to L.A. and work the scene? You'd get discovered in a heartbeat. I know you would."

"I just like Pawnee. I grew up here. I like working here. I like getting to be outdoors and getting to take free taekwondo lessons and the fact that I don't really seem to have a boss. And you work here, and I really like you, so. Win-win. Double-triple-quadruple-win."

"Stop before the words 'tiger blood' come out of your mouth."

Chord only barely suppresses a laugh. "I mean it. I really, really like you."

It must come out serious, because Chris just pauses and looks at him. Chord can see the doubtful twinge of a self-deprecating smile.

"Well, if we're asking tough questions, why do you work here?" Chord asks. "Why don't you move back to California? Not to Clovis, but – L.A. or something, like you said. Or somewhere gay penguin marriages aren't dissolved. Sell your novels or your screenplays. Get a job writing for _Dexter_. Work on the Obama campaign. You're so freakin' talented. You don't have to be here."

Chris shakes his head. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No, of course not. You just said you don't get why I stay here, but I don't know why you stay here either. My family's farm is just outside of Pawnee. I'm from here. You could be like Traeger. Like Ben. You could go anywhere."

"I like that you think of me that way. I probably would've moved back to Clovis by now, or moved on to post-grad in some other state. But I don't know, I'm just – happy where I am, right now," Chris says, ducking his head towards Chord's shoulder. There's pink in his ears.

Tipping his mouth to that blushing ear, Chord whispers, "With me?"

He's rewarded with a nod.

Something in Chord pushes, then, knowing it's right even though Andy was the one to point the way, just like April had. It's always been right and will always be right. That's kind of the thing.

"I love you," he breathes, going abruptly sweaty as his pulse pounds everywhere in him.

"I love you too," Chris responds after a moment. "Dork."

"Does this mean you'll be my Valentine?" Chord persists, grinning goofily.

"I don't know. What does being your Valentine entail, other than constant surprises?"

"Well, I'd tongue-kiss you if we weren't in city hall," Chord teases, getting a breathy chuckle from Chris.

"It wouldn't stop Matthew McConaughey and Councilman Dexhart."

"That's what I like about them political scandals, man. Alright, alright, alright."

"Wanna go see if the broom closet is occupied?"

***

Chris slinks back to his desk with his shirt freshly re-tucked, smiling awkwardly at Jerry.

Donna just hums knowingly. "Someone's turned their frown _all_ the way around."

"Chris!" Leslie raps a couple of times on the window separating her office from his and Andy's desks. She's smiling widely. "Mission accomplished??"

He flashes her a thumbs up and she gives him two back.

"You got sex hair, Chris. I would know. I wrote the song," Andy says, grinning. "So? What's up? Did he finally tell you that he looooves you? You got a look on your face that makes me think the answer is 'yes.'"

"Leave him be, Andrew, and continue making your rubber band ball at the expense of the U.S. government," says Ron, coming out the door of his office with a manila envelope, which he places squarely on Chris's desk. He stares at Chris intensely for a moment, taps the envelope twice, and turns right back around to shut himself into solitude once more.

Chris opens the envelope, heart rabbiting on for reasons that have nothing to do with that. However, there's a single sheet of paper inside, bearing minimal words clearly typed on Ron's beloved typewriter, weighed down by a completely unmarked silver key, and it just makes his heart beat even harder.

_Here is the key to my cabin in the woods. You have my permission to make use of it as you wish this weekend only. Whether you use it or not I don't care. Make your Valentine's Day what you will. The cabin is roughly 860 paces east of Wamapoke Lake. Tell no one its location, ever._

The department has shifted back into its quiet rhythm: the snap of rubber bands as Andy adds more and more to his shot put-sized ball, Jerry's sighs as he gets repeatedly locked out of his computer's system, Donna's nails on her keyboard. Leslie's talking to someone on the phone while April draws a graph onto a whiteboard for Monday's town meeting. Ann and Tom may well have found a broom closet of their own.

Elated, and increasingly sure of himself, Chris folds up the key into the paper, pockets it, and grabs his Post-Its.

> _V-Day Ideas:  
>  \- ~~don't make it a big deal~~  
>  \- rustic getaway, undoubtedly feat. actual bearskin rug_

***

It's bitingly cold and drizzling sleet the next day, but Chris doesn't care. It's Friday, it's Valentine's Day, and, well, his boyfriend is a model.

Chord stands the second he sees Chris walk in, even though he's mid-shine on Kyle.

"Morning, Valentine," Chris says cheerily. "Brought you coffee."

He hands Chord one of the cups from J.J.'s.

"What...?"

"I see why you bring me Diet Cokes. It's fun. Hey, don't make plans for tonight," Chris tells him. "Or, for that matter, this entire weekend. I've got it covered."

"But I... are you sure?" Chord asks.

"Oh! Did you have plans? Secret plans that you were keeping to yourself?"

"Not secret plans. Just dinner reservations and... stuff like that."

"Well, cancel."

Chord stares at him for a moment, his surprise at Chris taking the wheel right from him evident with his mouth hanging open. For a moment Chris thinks he's going to protest, that he maybe had a table somewhere reserved for weeks in advance and didn't let on at all, because Chord is just like that. But instead he says, "The whole weekend?"

"That's right."

"Okay."

Chris leaves Chord standing there in his apron with a crooked grin and Kyle's eyes darting uneasily between the two of them.

When he gets to the office, there are flowers standing in a vase on his desk, the spray of bright color a total surprise under the fluorescent lights. However, stuck right in the middle of the bouquet is a gleaming wooden pair of nunchaku. Chris pulls a crisp, heavy white card from the bouquet and opens the envelope, glad Andy's not there to witness him biting down a thousand-watt smile. Someone else's handwriting makes Chord's words look funny.

> _Chris,_
> 
> _I don't know if you'll like flowers so this isn't your only present. But I did want to get you flowers!!! Because I love you. Everyone knows it too!_
> 
> _Chord_

Tom stops short when he comes in, then staggers backwards dramatically.

"Oh my God! Okay, this is worth about fifty bajillion Hyperbole points! Someone's getting smaaaashed for V-Day. Don't be a tiny-hearted Grinch, Chris. Gimme some love."

Chris, too shocked and happy to throw shade, obliges Tom a five.

*

The cameras corner him, too, after watching him smell his flowers, stroke his new nunchuks, then fondle his card and slip it into his pocket along with the key to Ron's cabin.

"No," he's forced to admit. "Valentine's Day isn't really that bad."


End file.
